


It Was Real

by blue_karou



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, major angst, non-canon, thranduil being dramatic and sulky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-17 18:07:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4676276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_karou/pseuds/blue_karou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Elvenking learns to love, and to lose. </p><p>(oh gosh this is my first fanfic i can't write summaries pls don't hate it)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. His Father Before Him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set before The Hobbit, so Thranduil is quite young (for an elf!)

"...May his rule be as pure and just as his father's before him", the High Elf finished, his words ringing clearly through the wooded halls. Thranduil swallowed hard, trying to shut all thoughts of 'his father before him' from his mind. It was just a few days after the Battle of Dagorlad, and the celebrations of his coronation frankly seemed in poor taste. A feeling of dread settled around his chest until it was all he could do to stand and allow the High Elf to place the crown on his head. It was heavy, with uncomfortable wintery thorns. As the assembled elves cheered, Thranduil looked down on his kingdom with the haughty look which would come to define him. It was all a front, of course. He had never felt more alone. 

These were the things Thranduil remembered later that night, curled up in the highest branches of a tree that grew outside his bedroom window. He was exhausted from the effort of appearing civil for an entire day of festivities, and finally allowed himself to cry bitterly. 'Remember how to use that sword?' rang in his head, the final words his father had spoken before he rode off to his death. A taunt. A reflection of the whole relationship, really. Thranduil wasn't a warrior, wasn't the brilliant son King Oropher longed for. He had proved that at the battle. What better proof could there be, than riding home with a third of the original forces, his father slain? His childhood had been a blur of trying to impress the King, failing more spectacularly each time. This time was the worst. 

Just as he felt he might drown in his own memories, Thranduil was shocked back to Greenwood by a sharp whistle past his left ear. His head whipped round to see an arrow embedded in the branch behind his head. Would there be more? He was frozen in fear, eyes searching the dark forest. Another two arrows followed, coming to rest in nearby branches. 

"Damn, missed one"

It was a soft voice, female. He could see her now, bending to pull the arrows from where they had lodged. Her hair flowed down her back, glowing in the moonlight. She was like Artemis, though he did not know it. With a sharp intake of breath, he made himself invisible behind the tree trunk. He had no wish to encounter anyone on this night. Elves have good hearing, and she glanced round at the sound, but soon moved on, collecting her arrows. She couldn't have been at the battle, then. No one who had witnessed the horrors of Mordor could be as eager to practise the task of fighting. Relieved at his escape, Thranduil slipped back through his bedroom window and lay down, heart pounding. It would be a while before he got to sleep that night. 

The next morning, Thranduil was woken by a servant. A convoy had apparently arrived from Rivendell the previous night, and wished to speak with him. Dismissing the servant (he could not bring himself to call them _his_ yet), he sighed and looked around the room. Once so familiar, the beautiful tree-lined walls now gave him an empty feeling in the pit of his stomach. Everything was different now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know who crowns elves, I'm sorry! If you know a lot about Tolkien you'll have to excuse a lot of this fanfic, actually. Although I've read the books my knowledge of Elven stuff is limited and I have made some (quite a lot!) of stuff up and taken liberties throughout this fic. Please let me know if it is painfully bad, though!


	2. No More War

Oropher's throne was famed for it's magnitude - built large, they said, to accommodate the most powerful Elvenking. Thranduil felt uncomfortably small in his father's seat, to him a physical reminder of the legacy left behind. He slouched, legs crossed, in attempt to seem less completely out of his depth. After a few moments, he sent for the visitors. Five elves entered the room and stood before him. One, a male with shoulder-length black hair and a huge sword, stepped forward. Thranduil merely nodded at him by way of greeting. 

"Your highness, we have come to offer our services. I am Lorsan, head of the Rivendell army-" 

Thranduil cut him off, standing up suddenly. 

"There will be no more war," he declared emphatically. Already visions of the destruction danced in his mind. 

"With respect, King Thranduil, there are still many orcs to be vanquished. 

The title grated on Thranduil, who didn't see himself as fit for a warrior, let alone a king. 

"Our attempt was hardly successful, yes. I take your meaning." He steadied his voice at the thought of the battlefield of slain elves. "A third of my army remains. I would prefer not to chance their lives fighting battles we cannot win."

Seeing the king's resolve, Lorsan bowed respectfully, signalling the elves behind him to retreat. As he did so, however, a female stepped boldly out from behind him. She imitated Thranduil's position, standing with her shoulders back and looking him squarely in the face. Her golden hair framed a furious face. 

"How can you sit there and deny our offers of help? How can you let the orcs defeat us?" she demanded, eyes flashing with anger. Thranduil's head tilted on one side, regarding her. He recognised her as the girl from the forest, so eager to prepare for battle. 

"The orcs will defeat us regardless of your help." He said in a low voice. "They far out-number us. Further deaths are unnecessary."

"Your father was slain, I know," she countered, eyes filling with tears. "That is no reason to abandon hope. All of us know loss. It is no excuse."

He would have been shocked at her boldness, had the pang of guilt not been so strong. As it was, it felt like a kick to the stomach. They regarded each other through the film of tears for a brief moment before the leader, Lorsan, pulled her away with some force. Thranduil couldn't hear the vicious whispers as she struggled, but believed he caught the word 'right'. He was trying to do what was 'right' for his people. A short while later, she was subdued, and all five elves bowed as they prepared to exit. Just as their backs were turned, however, a messenger hurried to speak to Lorsan. 

"My lord, there is danger upon the High Pass. Travel is completely impossible. I would advise you to remain here for the foreseeable future," here she glanced nervously at Thranduil, "with the King's permission." Lorsan nodded, but the tenacious female was elbowing him, hissing.

"As if he would let us stay. There are other ways back to Rivendell." 

Thranduil returned to standing. 

"I will allow you to remain here for as long as is needed. My concerns are for your safety." 

Lorsan ignored the females continued protests.

"We are grateful for your hospitality, your highness," he said, bowing again with a grateful look. "The danger must truly be too great to risk travel."

"Show them to the guest quarters." Thranduil commanded his servants with a sweep of his arm.


	3. Healing

Three days passed without incident, despite the presence of five Rivendell elves roaming Thranduil’s cavernous halls. The king kept himself apart from his visitors to the extent that they began to wonder if he was invisible, dividing his time between his chambers and the throne room. While he would occasionally wander through other rooms, lost in thought, he was studious in his avoidance of the training room. He had no wish to be reminded of battle. 

During this period, time passed erratically for the young king. The shock as a servant tapped him on the shoulder became familiar to him; he would get lost in thought for hours before being roused to some menial task. This was the state he was in late one night, slouched on his father’s throne and staring vacantly into space, when a soft knock intruded on his thoughts. Sighing, he stalked across the enormous hall with the full intent to tell whoever it was to leave him alone. Opening the door a crack revealed a girl, much shorter than he was, with large hazel eyes looking openly up into his. Recognising the bow and arrow too late, he felt his original intentions diminishing. She was the warrior elf from Rivendell. 

"Could I come in?" she asked tentatively, and he realised he had been staring at her incredulously. He hadn’t realised before how small she was, barely reaching his shoulder. Her whole aspect was changed without the blinding rage of their first meeting. She peered past him into the throne room, prompting him to move out of the way, opening the door wider to admit her. To his surprise a large creature followed the girl, sniffing lightly at her hair. An elk? His eyes flicked from the animal to the girl, seeking an explanation. 

"Oh," she said, having been too busy admiring Oropher’s imposing throne room. Trees still lined the walls, as in other rooms, yet here they appeared darker, clustered together for protection. Incongruously, the throne had been forged from silver, huge spikes of the stuff entwined to look like tree roots. 

"He’s injured. There’s a deep wound in this leg. I’ve heard you are somewhat practised in healing?" she asked, suddenly unsure of herself. 

"I have practised a little" he answered, his deep voice reassuring despite himself. He bent to examine the injured leg, patting the elk’s broad neck to comfort him. The girl cleared her throat. 

"I suppose" she began, then trailed off. Thranduil looked up at her, eyes willing her to continue.

"I suppose he is also a token of my apology. I shouldn’t have let my temper get away with me that first day. I was hard on you. It wasn’t.. respectful," she finished, looking down at her feet. Thranduil didn’t know what to say. He felt an unexpected wave of fondness towards the girl. It was the closest he had got to any sort of positive emotion since his father’s death. His eyes were full of gratitude as he looked up at her, the words

"Thank you. I’ll see what I can do about his injuries," not even coming close to expressing the mix of emotions he felt for this tender gesture and the girl who gave it. The elk gave a friendly grunt and butted Thranduil gently with his head, causing the young king to wobble slightly. Unable to stop herself, the girl’s burst of laughter broke the tension. The sound was so infectious that Thranduil felt a smile spreading tentatively across his face. 

"I think that means he likes you"

"I hope so," Thranduil regarded her, head tilted thoughtfully. "I never learned your name."

"Alyssa," she blushed slightly, before continuing, "it means glory in battle."

Thranduil’s eyes darkened, but he would not snap at her this time. Her apology had been heartfelt, and he appreciated the gesture of the elk. 

"I see," he controlled himself, stiff posture paying testament to the tension that had crept back in between them. 

"The animal needs immediate care," he said by way of explanation, turning to leave. 

"Perhaps you would come and eat with us sometimes," Alyssa replied shyly, attempting to make up, in some way, for her name. 

"Perhaps."

He didn’t turn his head. The Elvenking seemed to grow colder again as he swept from the room. 

***

Growing up, Thranduil had a particular interest in the healers’ work, much to the ill-concealed dismay of his father. He knew the right combination of herbs to disinfect and assist the wound’s healing. Leading the elk to an empty dispensary, he selected kingsfoil and calendula. Rubbing them gently in cupped hands, he chanted the spell in a low voice until the herbs glowed warmly. Then he pressed them gently into the open wound, stroking the elk’s face reassuringly as he did so. As the animal relaxed into him, he felt a strange kind of satisfaction. For the first time since the Battle of Dagorlad, he had a purpose. 


End file.
